Leaflebugs
by Devilzzz
Summary: Some cupids kill with arrows, and some with traps.


If the crackle of leaves could understand what exactly was going on that very moment, then so should've Hermione. The dimming flicker and switch of her candle seemed to melt in its own saliva called wax as she stepped forward. It was not often; actually, never that she had gotten detention with Snape. But this time, it proved to be a worthy cause. She was so sick of him. Snape, talking about her and Harry's little relationship. Sick of it. It was, of course, not a reason to get closer to throwing her badge in the fire, of course, but with Harry one could never tell. Harry was worth it. The type of person that you could look at, and know, he was worth it. Worth doing everything for. At first it had been hand clenches when they first entered--fingers interlocked side by side away from Ron's view, and just tiny gentle kisses at the edges of their jaws. Harry was peculiarly not awaiting anything more than those kisses, and the feeling of rosebud little fingers touching. The Leaflebugs, however, would interrupt her thoughts soon. Or, what she thought was leaflebugs. They did not glow or shine as she took breathless steps, thinking about Harry, every breath she took of the night was for him, and she lived just for him. Idiotic thought, but this was what girls were like, idiotic, fairy-tale like, even Hermione, believing a boy could just fill the air with magic. 

Crackle of leaves. Leaflebugs, they crackled within the leaves. But as she approached, it was not leaflebugs at all. It was something far larger, black, and she thought she would die, standing near it. Two bodies were lying beside each other--her first thought was as idiotic and fairy-tale as her rest--they don't look like bugs. And they weren't. Robes. They were taking off each other's robes. Hermione watched in almost interest--Harry had never done this before with her, take off her robes. She didn't want to watch another weekly shag but she couldn't help but not look away. The candle seemed to burn in her command, existence, as it floated away slowly, like a passageway marking itself in the air. These two people were different. They touched each other as if one was glass and the other was fire, fingers grazing down their necks and backs, and that's when she realized they were both boys. The look of their legs on top of each other as one boy sat himself upright on top of the other gave her a feeling of something she had never felt before...a heartbeat. A pulse. A something. A feeling of welcoming something new, fresh. Their lips were clumsy against each other, and as the boy on the top sank his fingers to unzip the other's pants, the other didn't let him. This gave her a surge of that feeling, so much of it that she wanted to suffocate. He was hesitant as he finally spoke--

"I don't know."

The voice felt familiar, like a tinkle of something true. She swallowed her heart when she heard the voice, dreamlike. She scrunched up her face, she clenched her fists, she did all the things a girl would do, she did all the things a girl would do--but cry. She didn't cry yet until she ran, her steps stepping her into a bitter, soundless awakening of a life that she would rather die than live in. 

Because that voice, that verse, those fingers, those kisses didn't belong to the other person. They belonged to her. Harry belonged to her. But he was there, right there, beneath another boy. Her breath seemed to go away for a while, her cheeks puffed and her fingers pulled at the grass, ripping off every bit that she could find. It wasn't anger, it was shock to feel it, it was shock to hear it, and it was pain to actually let it drain in; let it focus into one complete sentence:

Harry was that boy.

The usual I don't believe it's died out soon enough. The usual girly shrieks to the sky and the usual sobbing just died out, just like everything else. Her clothes were being taken off and ripped apart by her own hands, and by the time she was done, they were bleeding, like several little paper cuts had bitten her right and left. The blood felt with her tears felt like a stinging blinding of her eyes. There was nothing, nothing at all that she could think of that would make sense that would let her breathe anymore. 

Voices. Sex. They were having sex, fifty feet away from her. Her shoes seemed to follow in the pattern of their moans, or the moans that she pictured. Feet rocking away back and forth like the fall of her stomach, drop _drop_. The rain would come soon. The rain would come. Her blouse and skirt were off. She put them on again, clutching her robes around her, running, knowing Snape wouldn't care if she lived or died or not--knowing, she wouldn't care either. 

The leaflebugs bugs crackled at her every step.

                      ***

"Hermione?"

The same, sweet voice again. Into her world of dense, suffocating liquid. She looked up, smiling. Her hands were hidden under the table, and the smell of fresh breakfast, a fresh morning grew under her.

"Harry?" she asked, smiling. It was the game they played every morning. Name-game.

He grinned. "How was detention with Snape?"

Pause. Little pause. "Fine. How was your night alone?"

Harry's eyes seemed to want to go into the direction of another table, another person. "Fine."

They looked back down at the table.

Yes. Everything was fine.


End file.
